


A Heart for Falsehood Framed

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Series: Fall Before Temptation [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Soledad Cartwright.On Elrond's Council, Boromir finally finds out just who Strider is. Things go downright bad from that point on.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Elladan, Elrond Peredhel/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Fall Before Temptation [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1929385
Kudos: 3
Collections: Least Expected





	A Heart for Falsehood Framed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. Obviously. Except of the Lady Aquiel.  
> Feedback: Yes, please. Feed my beast (also known the muse) for Part 2.  
> Story Notes: This is the fifth story of my Boromir arc ''Fall Before Temptation''.
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
> 
> Warning: this story contains implied m/m interaction - don't read it if it's not your thing.  
> Rating: PG - 13, just to be on the safe side.
> 
> Author's notes:  
> 1) This is Part 5 of my Boromir-storyline ''Fall Before Temptation''. There will probably be two more parts until it is completed.
> 
> 2) Though I generally follow the books, this time I adapted a few lines of dialogue from the movie: the whole scene where Boromir sees the shards of Elendil's Sword for the first time; some in Elrond's Council; and the one with the Ring upon Caradhras. The only reason for this being that those scenes helped me explore Boromir's character more deeply. Other scenes from the Council, including Bilbo's verse, are taken from ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', re-written the whole scene from Boromir's point of view. I also messed up a bit with the timeline, both the movie and the books, otherwise I wouldn't be able to reach the emotional climax I had been working towards.
> 
> 3) To the relationship of Boromir and Elladan and to the Lady Aquiel see my last story, [''The Bitter Gift of Compassion''](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534419).
> 
> 4) The title of this story has been borrowed from a season 2 episode of the science fiction-series Andromeda.

The end of October passed and November came with cold winds and needle-sharp rains, turning the golden glow of Imladris to twilit grey, and even most Elves retreated into the confining safety of their houses, watching the changing of the season deep inside their airy rooms where the moody attacks of late autumn weather could not reach them, not even through the open archways that let one side of each room without protection. 

Still, these days were probably the best ones for Boromir since his early childhood. When not truly happy - for _that_ he would have needed the love of another one who simply _could_ not love him that way -, he at least found some sort of peaceful contentment in Elladan's love. Even if it only was the comfort of flesh, for both of them. Or, at least, so he believed. 

For they were, in many ways, truly alike, in spite of the countless centuries Elladan had already known, compared to Boromir's short-lived mortality. Of high birth they both were, growing up in the shadow of intimidatingly powerful fathers, struggling to find their own path, constantly compared to younger brothers who were considered finer, more easy-going than themselves, finding comfort only in the harsh, fleeting love of another men - indeed, they were alike a lot. 

After their first, somewhat frenzied encounter, Elladan went on with that customary (and, truth to be told, unnerving) Elvish eagerness to show him the wonders of Imladris - and wonders there were to be shown, no doubt about it! Boromir was a lot less artistic than his brother, yet not blind for beauty, and Elladan took him to all the hiding places of his long-gone childhood: to ancient trees and crystal waterfalls, through twilit alleys and huge, shadowy halls full of old treasures where no-one had dwelt for hundreds of years. 

To his mild dismay, Elladan even insisted to introduce him to his friends who still dwellt in the valley (there were not many of those, though), but first and foremost to Elrohir and his betrothed, the Lady Aquiel. Boromir found Elrohir easy enough to get along with, and they told each other tell tales of battles and orc-hunting, Elrohir being better with words than his twin, just as Faramir was better than Boromir; and he had the heart of a minstrel and his hands were as skilled with the strings of the harp as they were with the strings of the bow - which painfully remainded Boromir how his brother had to give up his harp lessons to touch nothing else but weapons of war for the rest of his life. 

But the Lady Aquiel was tall and slender and as quick as a deer, and her long hair like molten gold and her sweet vioce like the tune of a silver flute - and she was called Lalaith, too, which means laughter, for when she laughed, it sounded like the music of silver church bells, and even the rain and the wind stopped to listen to it. And though she seemed to be a friend of the Lady Arwen - and, as Elladan revealed, was even older than her -, Lalaith truly seemed as merry and unconcerned as old tales spoke about Elves. Elrohir surely seemed to lit up with relief in her company, having had to endure his father's brooding mood all day. 

Sometimes Legolas, too, would join them on their rides outside the valley, admiring the wonderful, light-footed Elven horses that were kept in airy, open stables at the north end of the valley, or challenging the archers of the dale to firendly competitions which he won every time with practiced ease. For in spite of his love for the ancient trees and old lays, in the heart of his undying hearts the Prince of Mirkwood was a warrior, too, just as the two of them. 

* * *

''My mind is still troubled over the Heir of Gondor'', Legolas said on one greyish morrow, half-sitting and half-lying upon Elrond's huge, beautifully carved bed, trailing long fingers through the raven hair of his lover of old. 

He had just returned from the dawn-greeting ceremony that he and his people traditionally celebrated every morrow under the oldest trees of the valley, adamantly stating that they would hear the song of trees at sunrise - something no other Elf was able to achieve and most of them considered it a myth. 

''And my heart is troubled over Elladan as well'', he added. ''We might have made a grave error to conceal Estel's true heritage from Boromir. Men are strange creatures. He might believe that we betrayed him... and lied to him.'' 

''That I, too, fear greatly'', Elrond admitted, resting his forehead on Legolas' shoulder; there were days he wondered how he would be able to go on, carrying the responsibility for the fate of Middle-earth on his shoulders, if not for the soothing presence of Thranduil's son. However rare Legolas' visits might have been, he still anchored Elrond's soul and saved him from falling into darkness from all that evil and pain he had seen in his long, long life. 

''Yet it would be perilous to talk about Estel's birthright ere the time comes'', the Lord of Imladris continued. ''Not even your own escort knows who he truly is - and they had hunted orcs with him in Mirkwood for years.'' 

''True'', Legolas nodded, ''but my people are Elves. They have the time to wait till they are told what they need to know. Boromir is granted only a short span of years, as we see it. No wonder he is less patient in times of doubt.'' 

''Or in any other time, I fear'', Elrond sighed. ''And I do share your worries about Elladan, too. So strong the blood of mortal Men sings in his veins... so much more alike them he grows with every passing century. I always let him chose his own paths, in chosing his battles as well as in chosing his lovers, yet he still is restless, and I doubt not that could he not ride out to hunt orcs, this very valley would break his spirits and kill him. With this one, however... I fear he shall get hurt, badly.'' 

''The son of Denethor is more than a match for him, in many ways'', Legolas agreed thoughtfully, ''for he cannot be controlled and restrained, nor would he respect Elladan the same way the Dnedain of the North do: for his birth alone. This one is proud and stubborn and strong - Estel shall be hard-pressed to win him over... or put him on his place.'' 

''Yet what causes me even more anguish, is, that Elladan is slowly falling in love with him'', Elrond said. ''I very much doubt that he wants to or that he would even be aware of it. I would not mind him seeking distraction or rebonding with his mortal self - we both know he needs it or else he would be driven mad. But this Man has a deeply wounded heart - and should he lash out in his pain, it would hit Elladan hard. For he cares for him too much already.'' 

''You cannot be certain of that'', Legolas offered mildly. 

''Oh but I can'', Elrond sighed. ''I can see it shining in his eyes. Never in nearly three thousand years have his eyes shone this bright for anyone. Tis the same light that shines in _my_ eyes every time I look at _you_.'' 

''Which used to make _my_ father worry and scowl and grumble for at least a century'', Legolas laughed lightly, and Elrond felt how his mood, too, lightened a little. It was very hard, indeed, to brood with Legolas around. 

''I fear that King Thranduil shall never really trust me again'', he said. ''We might have put an end to the old grudge between our two realms on the White Council - only to create a new one when you came to me after Celebran's departure.'' 

Legolas nodded, turning serious again, for Thranduil's disapproval truly clouded the joy they found in each other. 

''You have to let Elladan follow his chosen path, just as you ever had'', he then said. ''He might get hurt, tis true. But we all get hurt sometimes. And your son is no tender elfling any more. He is almost as old as I am. Old enough to face the risks of love.'' 

* * *

So the days of early November passed by in some unexpected peace and the day of Elrond's Council arrived. Boromir woke early on that day, feeling somewhat anxious again, torn between excitement and foreboding at the thought that he would finally find out the meaning of what he came to think of as the Riddle of Doom - and found, to his dismay, that Elladan was already gone. Then he remembered that the sons of Elrond were, ideed, meant to leave shortly after the Council and certainly had preparations to make. 

He got up and ready in mere moments, and after a short breakfast he left the guest house to walk along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watched the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains, and shine down, slanting through the silver mist: the dew upon the yellow leaves was glimmering and the woven nets of gossamer twinkled on every bark. He stopped again and again, glaring with wonder in his eyes at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks and remainded him of the white locks of old Mindolluin, the great mountain of his homeland. 

On a set cut in the stone beside a turn in the path he came upon the Lady Aquiel, who, too, seemed to be looking toward the East; and her eyes were worried, for the first time since he had met her. 

''Good morrow'', she greated him friendly, but absently. ''Feel ready for the great council?'' 

''I have been ready for at least a month'', Boromir replied, somewhat gruffily. 

The Elf-Lady nodded in understanding. 

''We have tempted your patience long enough, I believe. Now, hopefully, you shall find the answers you were so desperately seeking for. 

''What about you, lady?'' Boromir asked. ''Do you not want to hear the tiding and decisions this council might offer?'' 

But the Lady Aquiel only shook her head, smiling. 

''Nay, I do not want to sit through long and boring discussions. I shall learn everything of importance soon enough.'' 

This surprised Boromir, for he always thought - and his unexpectedly long stay in Imladris only strengthened him in this belief - that Elves as a rule were utterly curious people. But ere he could voice his amazement, a single bell rang out. 

''That is the warning bell for the Council of Elrond'', Aquiel said. ''You should go now, for you are wanted. Do you need me to escort you?'' 

Boromir shook his head in polite refusal and hurried along the winding paths back to the house - directly to the porch that Elladan had shown him the day before, in order to make him able to find his way alone. 

The light of the clear autumn morning was now glowing in the valley. The noise of bubbling water came up from the foaming river-bed. Birds were singing, and a wholesome peace lay on the land. And yet, a feeling of impending doom overcame Boromir's heart again, and the shadow that had cleared up a little during those cheerful days he had spent in Elladan's company, settled down heavily upon him again. 

Elrond was already there, of course, and several others were seated in silence about him. Boromir saw Glorfindel with several other counsellors of Elrond's household, of whom he only knew Elestor, their chief; and with him was Galdor, an Elf from the Grey Havens who had come on an errand from Crdan the Shipwright only two days ago. And there was also Legolas, clad in green and brown again, as a messenger from his father, the Elven-King of Northern Mirkwood. 

But not all of the Council were Elves. In a corner alone Strider was sitting, clad in his old, travel-worn clothes again; and Boromir saw the two Dwarves he had gotten a glimpse on that feast several weeks ago, so alike in their looks that they could only have been father and son... and hardly had Boromir found a seat for himself, a little apart from the others, as an all-too-familiar figure of an old man appeared in one of the arched doorways, wearing a long, grey coat and a big, grey hat; and leading, seemingly, a young, Elvish-looking boy by the hand. Yet the boy's clothes were anything but Elvish, and his feet were large and bare, covered with thick, soft brown curls, not unlike those upon his head. 

Boromir was so amazed over this never-heard-of little creature that it took him a moment to recognize the grey-clad old man with that long, white beard and those deep, piercing eyes of his. 

_Mithrandir_!, he thought, full of awe, *now I am certain that I tumbled into something important - and possibly perilous. Every time when the old wizard is involved, strange things are going to happen. What shall Father say when he learns that Mithrandir's path has led to Imladris, just as mine?* 

To his utter surprise, the Lord Elrond drew the boy to a seat by his side and presented him to the Council, saying: 

''Here, my friends, is the hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo. Few have ever come hither through greater peril or on an errand more urgent.'' 

Then he went on and pointed out and named all those the boy - the _hobbit_? - had not met before, starting with the younger Dwarf, one Gimli son of Glin, and finishing with Boromir himself, who could not stop glaring at the strange little creature with that Elvish face, the ominous words of the Riddle of Doom rumbling in the back of his mind. 

''Here'', said Elrond, turning to Mithrandir, ''is Boromir, a man from the South. He arrived a few weaks ago, in the grey morning and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions shall be answered.'' 

_Or so I hope_ , Boromir added in his mind, still not be able to trust the Master of Imladris completely. 

''We have met'', Mithrandir replied in a quiet voice, and his eyes seemed to burrow through the younger man's mind, ''yet that was many long years ago. And it was rather his brother I had some dealings with. I hope Faramir is faring well?'' 

''As well as it can be expected in times of war'', Boromir replied glumly, asking himself what his brother might be doing right now and if he, indeed, was well and safe. 

With that, Elrond opened the Council, and it went on and on, seemingly with no end at all. Much was said of the events in the world outside, especially in the South, and in the wide lands east of the Mountains, and Boromir listened with avid interest, for with what he already had known from the scouts of Minas Tirith and from his brother's dealings with omer of Rohan, he finally began to put the greater picture together - and a very dark picture it was, indeed. It seemed that the long arm of Mordor had already reached out to take the remaining free lands in a tight grip, and there was little hope that they would be able to break that grip, ever. For it appeared, that even the hearts of the most resilient Dwarves of the far away Lonely Mountain were troubled. 

Three times were they already visited by the messengers of the Dark Lord, who lured, then threatened them to win their service again, in one thing above all: to find a _hobbit_ who had apparently stolen a ring from him - which, in Boromir's ears, who had faced Mordor's wrath all his life, sounded rather unlikely. So must have thought the Dwarves, too, for they gave no answer the messengers, no yes and no nay - knowing though, that they would come back, before the ending of the year. 

''Heavy have the hearts of our chieftains been since that night'', Glin, the elder of the Dwarves finished his tale. ''We needed not the fell voice of the messenger to warn us that his words held both menace and deceit; for we knew already that the power that has re-entered Mordor has not changed, and ever it betrayed us of old. And so I have been sent at last by Din, King Under the Mountain, to learn, if my be, why he desires this ring, this least of rings. Also we crave the advice of Elrond. For the Shadow grows and draws nearer. We discover that messengers have come also to King Brand in Dale, and that he is afraid. We fear that he may yield. Already war is gathering on his eastern borders...'' 

Boromir felt the weight of darkness growing upon his heart. What the old Dwarf was telling, made all his hopes - to find counsel and allies and maybe even some help in the far North - fade into nothingness. He would fail, and this time his shining city might fall with him. 

He shivered, wishing to be at home once again. Whatever upcoming doom threatened Middle-earth, he wanted to face it at home, protecting his own people - and his brother - with his last breath. 

Yet it would have done no good for him to show his fears before these people. Early had he learnt in the court of his father, that a leader had to show strength, did he want to master his duties as he should. So he gathered himself again and forced his straying mind to listen. 

''You have done well to come'', was Elrond saying to the troubled Dwarf. ''You shall hear today all that you need in order to understand the purposes of the Enemy. There is naught that you can do, other than resist, with hope or without it. But you do not stand alone. You shall learn that your trouble is but part of the trouble of all the western world. The Ring! What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.'' 

Boromir shuddered again. Now the time has come that he learnt the meaning of that cursed dream that had haunted both him and his brother ever since the last bridge of Osgiliath collapsed behind them. The dream that robbed Faramir his sleep, that crept over his heart with dark foreboding, that made him wake up screaming when hefinally managed to fall asleep. _Now, if the Valar grant it, it might be over_. 

''That is the purpose for which you are called hither'', Elrond continued, with that annoying calm of his Kin. ''Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem. Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.'' 

And saying that, he looked straight at Boromir, as if his next words had been directed at him, and him only. 

''Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I shall begin that tale, though others shall end it.'' 

Then all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging in the Second Age of the world long ago. It was a long tale, and Boromir grew more and more impatient, for a good part of it was known to him already, having been taught the lore of the Kingdoms of Men, both in the North and in the South. So he listened only with half an ear, his mind wandering around tha badly threatened borders of Gondor - until Elrond finally came to speak of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, that had overthrown the Dark Lord at the end of the Second Age. 

''I was the herald of Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor, and marched with his host'', the Lord of Imladris said. ''I was at the Battle of Dagorlad before the Black Gate of Mordor, where we had the mastery; for the Spear of Gil-galad and the Sword of Elendil, Aiglos and Narsil, none could withstand. I beheld the last combat on the slopes of Orodruin, where Gil-galad died and Elendil fell, and Narsil broke beneath him; but Sauron himself was overthrown, and Isildur cut the Ring from his hand with the hilt-shard of his father's sword and took it for his own.'' 

At this, Boromir suddenly felt as if a ray of sunlight fell through a broken window into a large, shadowy room. All the searching and guessing Faramir had done back home, at once became a whole new meaning. 

''So _that_ is what became of the Ring!'', he cried. ''If ever such a tale was told in the South, it has long been forgotten. I have heard of the Great Ring of him that we do not name; but we believed that it perished from the world in the ruin of his first realm. Isildur took it! That is tiding, indeed.'' 

And his mind began working in frenzy with the new promises of this, wondering, how he could use these news for the good of his city. 

''Alas! yes'', said Eldrond. ''Isildur took it, as should not have been. It should have been cast then into Orodruin's fire nigh at hand where it was made. But few marked what Isildur did. He alone stood by his father in that last mortal contest; and by Gil-galad only Crdan stood, and I. But Isildur would not listen to our counsel. He took the Ring to treasure it. And soon hewas betrayed by it to his death; and so it is named in the North *Isildur's Bane*...'' 

Elrond paused, looking at Boromir's unreadable face again, fearing how these tidings would touch the heart of a Man, darkened already by the shadow of Mordor. When he continued, his voice became soft, almost gentle. 

''Only to the North did these tidings come, and only to a few. Small wonder it is tha you have not heard them, Boromir. From the ruin of the Gladden Fields, where Isildur perished, three men only came ever back. One of these was the esquire of Isildur who bore the shards of the Sword of Elendil; and he brought them to Valandil, the heir of Isildur, who being but a child had remained here in Imladris. But Narsil was broken and its light estinguished, and it has not yet been forged again.'' 

'' _That_ much I have already learnt'', Boromir muttered under his breath, remembering his first encounter with the Lord of Imladris, shortly after his arrival. 

But no-one listened to him, save maybe Strider, whose eyes never seemed to leave his face, and Elrond went on to tell the tale of the North and South Kingdoms of Men - a tale of little interest for Boromir who had been taught the history of his sires and his city in great detail from his early childhood on, and indeed, he could have told a lot more about Gondor's struggles and bravery than Elrond did. 

And so once Elrond ceased, Boromir suddenly stood up, tall and proud before the Council, for he felt the need to speak. 

''Give me leave, Master Elrond'', he said, ''first to say more of Gondor; for verily from the land of Gondor I am come, as many of you might already know. And it would be well for all to know what passes there. For few, I deem, know of our deeds, and therefore guess little of their peril, if we should fail at last.'' 

He paused, looking around the cold, detached faces of all the Elves sitting there; then at the wide-eyed, clearly frightened face of that... _hobbit?_ sitting between Elrond and Mithrandir, who seemed, at least, worried enough to listen; and finally at Strider, and their eyes met in a brief struggle of wills. And he continued, aiming his words directly at the Ranger. 

''Believe not that in the land of Gondor the blood of Nmenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By our valour the wild folk of the East are still restrained, and the terror of Morgul kept at bay; and thus alone are peace and freedom mantained in the lands behind us, bulwork of the West.'' 

Even as he spoke, he could remember having uttered these very same words in the Golden Hall of Meduseld, before King Thoden and his court. But there, among the faithful allies of Gondor, people at least listened to him; and he had the support of his dear friend, Thodred son of Thoden, who shared his concern for the lands of Men in a way Elves, who might flee over the Sea when the peril grew too close, could never have done. 

''And yet the hour of our fall, maybe, is not far away'', he added bitterly. ''The nameless Enemy has arisen again. Smoke rises once more from Orodruin that we call Mount Doom. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. Osgiliath has fallen, finally, the last bridge destroyed. We are fighting with our backs against the wall.'' 

''Is that why you came here to find the meaning of a dream that was sent to you and your brother as a foresight?'', Legolas asked, speaking for the first time. ''The right place you have chosen, it seems. For you have learnt of *Isildur's Bane*, finally, and what it might bring for us all.'' 

''And here, in the house of Elrond, more shall be made clear for you'', said Strider, standing up. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and Boromir saw that its blade was broken in two pieces. And parts of the riddle that had haunted his mind for a hundred and thirty days, finally began to fit together, though there were still some that stayed unclear for him - Strider being one of those. 

''And who are you and what have you do with Minas Tirith?'' he asked, looking suspiciously at the lean face of the Ragner and his weather-stained cloak. 

For he did not forget the feast that had been held to greet the return of Elladan and Elrohir - where Strider was clad like an Elven-prince, sitting on the side of Elrond's daughter, the Lady Undmiel of the songs, like someone who had the right to be _that_ close to her. 

''He is Aragorn son of Arathorn'', said Elrond; ''and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil's son on Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.'' 

Boromir glared at the Ranger in disbelief... not that he could not have imagine him as a descendant of the Northern Kings, for Strider certainly showed all the outer signs of high Nmenorean blood - he was only reluctant to accept the possibility that someone from that bloodline would still be walking on earth. The North-kingdom had fallen eighty years earlier than the last King of Gondor vanished, after all. 

'' _This_ is Isildur's Heir?'' he repeated doubtfully. 

''And Heir to the throne of Gondor'', Legolas quietly added. ''You owe him your allegiance.'' 

Strider - no, _Aragorn_ \- seemed uncomfortable with the Prince of Mirkwood speaking up on his behalf. 

''Not now, Legolas'', he murmured. 

But Boromir only sat there, unmoving, for what seemed to him forever. Now he believed to understand the game that was played here - and Elrond's role in it - and the need of secrecy that had kept him in the dark so long. Yet he thought it wiser not to show his full understanding, and he only stated in a low, but very clear voice. 

''Gondor _has_ no King. Gondor _needs_ no King.'' 

No-one but Elrond, Mithrandir and Aragorn himself seemed to have heard this statement, and the deep eyes of the wizard became even more worried for a moment. The others, however, turned towards the little, bare-footed creature Elrond had named Frodo, who sprang to his hairy feet in amazement and cried to Aragorn: 

''Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!'' 

Strangely, this seemed to bring the little fellow great relief. 

''It does not belong to either of us'', said Aragorn; ''but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while.'' 

To that, the Elvish face of the little one clouded again with sorrow, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. _Strange_ , Boromir thought absently, feeling almost sorry for him. 

''Bring out the Ring, Frodo!'' said Mithrandir solemnly. ''The time has come. Gold it up, and then Boromir would understand the remainder of his riddle.'' 

// _Oh, but I do understand it, Mithrandir_ //, the son of Denethor thought, while the small, trembling hand of the hobbit held up the gleaming and flickering golden circle. //*I understand it better than you might believe. Tis not the first finely-plotted game of power I have seen in my life... being the son and Heir of one of the greatest game-masters of Middle-earth. Indeed, I understand all too well what has been going on for years here, in the North.*// 

''Behold *Isildur's Bane*!'' said Elrond. 

Boromir's eyes glinted as he gazed at the golden thing before him. 

''The Halfling!'' he muttered. ''Now I have all parts of the Riddle of Doom that sent me here from the far South. Yet what good could us do a Sword that has been lying in shards for three thousand years?'' 

He looked at Aragorn with more than mere doubt in his eyes. The Ranger did not answer. But the other Halfling that was sitting aside (a very old and withered-looking fellow), suddenly stood and burst out impatiently something that maybe was meant to sound like a verse of forgotten lore, yet sounded clumsy, like a lullaby rhyme, in Boromir's ears. 

All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. 

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall the blade that was broken: The crownless again shall be King. 

''Not very good perhaps'', the battered old Halfling added (which, in Boromir's opinion, was an understanding), ''but to the point - if you need more beyond the word of Elrond. If that was worth a journey of a hundred and ten days to hear, you had best listen to it.'' 

He sat down with a snort. Boromir did not answer. The Halfling was of little importance for him, though it bothered him that the little goblin seemed to know everything he had told of himself in Elrond's house. Yet his true adversary was the one in that weather-stained cloak. 

Strider - _Aragorn_ , he remainded himself, _say Aragorn, you get better used to it_ \- felt his sharp gaze and turned to him. 

''For my part I forgive your doubt'', he said. _How gracious of you_ , Boromir thought. ''Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the Heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself. The days of our House have darkened, and we have dwindled; but ever the Sword has passed to a new keeper, in a long line unbroken from father unto son, for many fenerations.'' 

''Hiding in the wilderness like frightened children while the Stewards ruled the White City and kept the enemy at bay'', Boromir countered in a low voice that only the Ranger could hear - or maybe some of the Elves, for Elrond gave him a sharp looke, and Legolas seemed disturbed. 

Aragorn frowned but controlled his rising anger. 

''You might see us like that. But this I will say to you, son of Denethor, ere I end. Lonely men we are, Rangers of the Wild, hunters - but hunters ever of the servants of the Enemy; for they are found in many places, not in Mordor only.'' 

''For how great a fool do you hold me, son of Arathorn, if that is who you truly are?'' Boromir replied coolly. ''Am I not the son and the Heir of the Steward? Minas Tirith has dealings with many countries far from our shores, and the Lord Denethor has often means to come to tidings lesser Men might not have. Well aware I am of the peril that is threatening us all - save the ones that Elven secrecy kept hidden from my eyes.'' 

Aragorn sighed, clearly tired of his accusations. 

''If Gondor, Boromir, has been a stalwart tower, we have played another part.'', he said. ''Many evil things there are that your strong walls and bright swords do not stay. You know little of the lands beyond your bounds. Peace and freedom, you say? The North would have known little but for us. Fear would have destoyed them. And yet less thanks we have than you. Travellers scowl at us and countrymen gave us scornful names.'' His storm-grey eyes glinted. ''But now the world is changing once again. A new hour comes. *Isildur's Bane* is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I shall come to Minas Tirith.'' 

// _And we shall see just how that would help anyone_ //, Boromir thought darkly, imagining the wrath of his father upon hearing these 'good' tidings. // _Nay, son of Arathorn, you shall not simply come down South and take our precious city that our sires had cared for and kept safe and defended with their lives, ruling it with great strength and wisdom. If you believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion shall step down to be the dotard chamberlain of an upstart, then you are even bigger a fool than I have thought of you._ // 

But out loud he only said this much: 

''*Isildur's Bane* is found, you say. I have seen a bright ring in the Halfling's hand; but Isildur perished ere this age of the world began, they say. How do the Wise know that this ring is his? And how has it passed down the years, until it is brought hither by so strange a messenger?'' 

''That shall be told'', said Elrond. 

''But not yet, I beg, Master'', the older one of the Halflings said. ''Already the Sun is climbing to noon, and I feel the need of something to strengthen me.'' 

''I had not named you'', said Elrond smiling. ''But I shall do so, soon. Yet you were right about the pass of time. We shall take a short break from our Council - for much needs to be spoken of yet, and it could reach into the evening hours. We shall return here in one hour's time.'' 

With that, he rose and left, and his counsellors followed him. The others trailed out as well, leaving Aragorn and Boromir alone behind. The Ranger, too, stood up and turned towards Boromir, but Denethor's son could not bear another word with him. So he turned away harshly and stomped out in silent fury. 

* * *

He returned to his room in the guest house, trying to keep his temper under control, for much of what he had learnt so far made his blood boil with anger. Thinking of the way these Elves lulled him into a half-dream of peace and safety while secretly working on taking his inheritance from him and putting that... that lowly Ranger on the throne of the greatest City of the Third Age... 

''Oh, here you are'', the soft, pleasant voice of his lover jerked him out of his dark thoughts. 

Elladan stood in one of the open arches that served as windows and entrances likewise. He wore the rough grab of the Rangers already, to conceal himself from prying eyes while on his way in the Wild, and his long, raven hair was bound in a tight ponytail on the back of his head. He looked annoyingly young and innocent, even for an Elf, and for some reason this angered Boromir even more. 

_Elves_ , he thought in disgust, *what do they know about the struggles of short-living Men? What has it been that awoke his interest in me? What might his part be in all this?* 

''How did it go, I wonder?'' Elrond's eldest continued; then, taking a look at Boromir's face, he frowned. ''Not well, I guess.'' 

''Oh, but it went better than your people might have expected'', Boromir replied in a voice that sounded unusually harsh, even for his own ears. ''I have learnt many things, indeed. More, mayhap, than I was meant to learn - or even understand.'' 

''And just _what_ have those things been, if you do not mind my asking?'' Elladan raised an arched eyebrow even higher. 

''I shall tell you in a moment'', Boromir said. ''But first answer _me_ a question of some importance: What in Middle-earth does your sister, the Lady Arwen, have to do with this Strider... I mean, Estel... I mean, Aragorn, Isildur's Heir?'' 

Elladan did not seem to consider the question unseemly - at least not from someone he shared his bed with. It was a family matter, after all. 

''Why, the two are betrothed to each other'', he answered with a shrug. ''Long and hard has been their way toward happiness, and whether they ever shall be able to reach fulfillment, I cannot say. For our father, though he had always loved Estel as if he were his own child, announced, that Arwen Undmiel shall not diminish her life's grace for a cause less than the second and final victory over the shadow. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. Yet we all fear that even if we might be victorious, to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.'' 

This revelation, though not fully surprising for him after all what he had learnt and observed on this very day, did not serve to sooth Boromir's boiling anger. 

''So this is how your father intends to unite Middle-earth under his own rule?'', he spat, fuming. ''Through the groin of his children? Letting his daughter wed the self-exclaimed King of Arnor and demanding from him Gondor as a wedding gift? And allowing _you_ to bed Gondor's Heir, in hope that you can distract me with your skills enough to make me accept that ursurper on Gondor's throne?'' 

Elladan did not even ad much as flinch to these horrible accusations, only his face became very, very pale and his lips tightened to a thin line. 

''I have heard that Men often feel the need to hurt those who love them most deeply'', he finally said in a strangely flat voice, ''yet I could not believe it - until now. Are your pain and anger truly so great that you need to hurt me such a cruel way? I gave you everything I could. I do not regret _that_. I only regret that it was not enough to lift the shadow off your heart.'' 

With that, he turned around and left - not disappearing in that unnerving Elvish way but with the slow, faltering steps of the mortally wounded. A very... mortal departure it was, indeed. 

Boromir slumped into a big chair, still trembling with anger and bitter disappointment over all what happened in the Council. It took him some time till the true meaning of Elladan's words sickered through the thick layers of fear, mistrust and pain that guarded his heart - and when it finally happened, it struck him like an iron fist. 

He never thought that Ellandan might fall for him this deeply. Theirs was an affair of convenience, limited by time, the narrow-minded customs of Gondor and his own heart that was no more his to give... for it had been given a long time ago, once and forever. 

But he did not want to cause the same anguish and pain he had suffered most of his life the breave and gentle Elf who had so unexpectedly offered him comfort only a few weeks ago; who healed him and lifted his spirits as far as it could be done in such a short time. 

Now, curse to his stubborn pride, he destroyed the best thing he had ever been given. Tonight, he would not lie in the safety of Elladan's arms, would not feel the warmth of that tall, slender body spooned up against his back. No soft, low voice would sing to him in his sleep, keeping the nightmares of that shadow away that fell upon his heart under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath. 

At that thought, Denethor's son hid his face in his hands, breaking down in tears, for the first time since his mother's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wasn't planning to do a two-parter, but with the re-writing of Elrond's Council the story became far too long; besides, I stil haven't made up my mind about which part of the Fellowship's journey should be in this story and which in the next one. So it seemed the best solution to break the whole tale in two and post Part One as soon as possible, so I had the time to ponder over Part Two.


End file.
